


Tell me a Tale, Tiresias

by seryle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Cannon au, Case Fic, F/M, Gen, Story divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:11:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seryle/pseuds/seryle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case fic where Castiel is ripped from his vessel and forced into woman's body. Sarcasm ensues. </p><p>Takes place in an alternate version of Season 8, where Naomi doesn't exist and Chuck pulled Cas from purgatory. (but Cas doesn't know that)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morpheus Lends a Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A work in progress. Starts sometime around Hunteri Heroci. No explicitness in this chapter.
> 
> Re-wrote two parts in this chapter so the grammar wasn't as horrible.

Dean was asleep seconds after his head had hit the pillow. Not that anyone could blame him — dealing with an okami not three days after Looney Tune land? He needed his four hours and then some.

He found himself wrapped up in silk sheets as well as the arms of two busty brunettes, the pair taking turns kissing him and each other, lazily working their way down south. A fourth playmate appeared at the foot of his bed; in hindsight, he’d mark this as strange. The girl was no more than 5’0, and couldn’t have weighed 100 pounds soaking wet. She wore a Chicago Blackhawks t-shirt, a pair of black panties-- and nothing else. Had Dean been thinking straight, he would’ve realized this girl was nowhere near his usual type: her chest was mostly flat, a pair of unsupported (barely) A-cups just peaking through the fabric of her shirt, there was no curve to her skinny hips, and what little ass she had scarcely held its own against her boyish features. At the foot of the bed she stood, unmoving, watching him. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Had he been thinking clearly, that phrase would have rendered him reminiscent. Nostalgic. But who thinks clearly in a dream?

Dean sat up in the bed, red silk sheet draped about his mid-waist; the girl stayed rigid at the bedsideThe black of her hair suggested Asian, but the waves- along with a set of dazzling blue eyes- cried Russian. Dean didn’t even consider this. He thought two things: Yes, and Now.  
“Is this what you dream about?” the girl asked plainly, hesitating in all the wrong parts of the sentence to look around. Dean reached up and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. His right hand grasped the back of her neck, pulling her in tightly so his lips could press against her own. The girl jerked away almost immediately, turning bright red.

“Dean, it’s me,” she said, taking a step back.

They were in the backseat of the Impala, Dean lounging on the leather as the girl knelt on the seat. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” he murmured, caressing up the back up her shirt with his left hand, gripping her tiny, firm ass with his right. He leaned in again, nibbling softly at her earlobe. She pushed him back again. Had he been halfway to consciousness, the proportions of her body would have felt way off. After all, he preferred the large busted types.

“Dean,” the female protested, “It’s me. It’s Castiel.”

The shock of _that_ sent Dean bolting upright.

“CASS?!” 

Dean found himself sitting up in bed. He was back in the motel, naked in crappy polyester sheets, Sam in the bed beside him. He shook his head a few times in a desperate attempt to clear it. No more going three days without sleep. 

The commotion woke Sam. “Dude, what the hell?” he asked, still groggy.

Dean rubbed at his eyes, trying to throw out the memory still lurking behind them. “Sorry. Worst nightmare ever” he explained, hoping Sam would just fall back asleep.

“Hello, Dean,” the voice came from the edge of the room, undoubtedly female. Dean’s blood ran cold. “Sam,” she added as an afterthought.

Oh, _fuck._

Sam bolted up and started for the gun under his pillow. “Relax, Sammy,” Dean’s words stopped him short-, “It’s Cas.”

“Cas?” he repeated bluntly, peering at the girl in the corner.

Dean turned to look at what was now Castiel.

“New rule: you are never allowed in my dreams, ever again. Find a fucking phone, and call it.”  
For once, Cas wasted no time getting to the point. “I need your help, Dean. There is little time to explain. I’ve been trapped, in a woman’s body, in Chicago.”

“What?” he replied absently, rubbing his face. Dean needed as much detail as possible, using the extra time to calm down. His nightmare was standing right before him, begging to be touched; he shifted uncomfortably, hoping the experience would dissolve before his eyes. He was still rather worked up from the dream, and hoped Cas wasn’t reading his mind in the meantime, still filled with dirty thoughts. I mean fuck — the dream _felt_ real; the firmness of Cas’s body against the warmth of his own — Dean shook his head again, punishment for even _thinking_ about it. It didn’t technically happen, it was just a dream — or so he told himself. He shifted again, trying his best to hide from Sam just exactly how much the idea had excited him.

“I don’t exactly know how, but they drained the mind and soul from this body, and forced me into it,” Cas replied, taking a step closer. Sam clambered out of bed and started getting dressed — whatever was happening, clearly they were driving somewhere. Again. He walked into the bathroom to gather the laundry that was drying on the shower curtain. “And who is they?” he asked from the other room.

“Amateurs,” Cas spat with considerable venom, causing Dean to smirk. He calmed down enough to get dressed and start packing, starting by re-assembling the gun he’d left in pieces on the table the night before. The familiarity of the task helped ground him again.

“Any other helpful information?” Dean prompted as he worked.

“I have an address. If we start now we can get there by morning. It’s about a 12 hour drive from here.”

“Alright,” Dean said, “But first, you can’t go walking around looking like the start of a Girls Gone Wild video. We need to get you some clothes.” He looked up briefly from his task, but his eyes automatically fell to the girl’s unsupported chest. He immediately returned his gaze downward, focusing on the pistol.

Castiel looked down at the vessel’s clothes. There was a rustle of feathers, and she once more wore the familiar suit, tie, and trench coat of James Novak. Sam smirked. She looked like a kid playing with her father’s clothes.

“Cas,” Sam started gingerly, “That doesn’t fit you.” The angel started to protest but thought better of it, lifting her arms up to look at the coat’s baggy sleeves. Sam turned to reach for his bag. Between the two of them, there had to be some woman’s clothing in this motel room. He started to rummage through his things when a voice interrupted.

“Better?” Dean and Sam turned in unison to look up at the angel, who still wore the same outfit, but now tailed to her new figure. The boys grinned. Either Cas was extremely nostalgic, or she had no idea how to dress at all. Dean found both ideas equally adorable. He then mentally slapped himself for thinking the angel adorable.

“Let’s go,” Cas ordered, taking two steps before falling into Sam. The younger Winchester caught the frail girl easily, holding her steady. The angel looked accusingly at the heels on her feet. “How do women walk in these?” she asked.

Dean managed to smirk, swallowing down the ridiculous wave of jealously that flared up as Sam held the angel. “I have no idea,” he answered, cocking the pistol’s last piece into place.


	2. Obligatory Impala Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex here either, kids. In case that's the only reason you opened this.

Despite Dean’s grumbled protests, Team Free Will reached the halfway point before he finally surrendered the driver’s seat; he then insisted on playing a game of musical chairs that left him sprawled across the backseat. Sam immediately recognized this classic move as Dean-code for ‘something’s wrong but I don’t want Sammy asking a fuckton of dumb questions so if I hide then maybe he won’t notice.’ Not to be confused with the common Dean-code for ‘your music taste sucks and some of us are trying to sleep’, or ‘I had one too many beers to steer this thing.’ In light of their recent situation, Sam was placing all bets on option number one.

This left Sammy to drive with Cas riding shotgun. Sam let the radio fill the silence between them, marking off time by switching radio stations as they faded in and out of range. Cas was a great driving partner; she didn’t complain about Sam’s terrible taste in music or how fast they were going and she perked up, ready to offer directions whenever their exit came close or if they had to make a turn. Sam just nodded an unspoken understanding, and she would fall back into the leather, watching the trees with that same unblinking stare.

Although Castiel sat in a comfortable silence, Sam didn’t miss the furrow in her brow when she seemed to stare through the dashboard, deep in thought. And there was no mistaking the small curve in the corner of her mouth when she looked back to check on still-snoring Dean. Despite the sex-change, Cas still remained, well, Cas.

At about 3:30 in the morning, Sam’s latest radio choice crackled out of existence, and the only other options to be found were political ranting and Christian rock. Sam flipped off the radio and figured this would be as good a time as any to chat.

“Well Cas, gimme the lowdown,” he prompted, silencing the static with a click. Castiel stared quizzically at him, head tilted slighted to the side.

“The…lowdown?” she drew out, squinting at him, as though bringing him into focus would help her understand his vocabulary.

“Yeah Cas,” Sam smiled, tapping the wheel, “Just- you know, whatever you told Dean earlier, fill me in too.”

“Dean and I did not speak earlier,” she confessed, a tinge of some emotion (Sam couldn’t figure out what) leaking into her voice, “And the silence was not one of comfort.” Castiel sighed, turning to look out the window. “I suppose he was still upset over what occurred in his dream when I came in search of you.”

Sam simultaneously did and did not want to know what that meant. He filed it away for future reference, and chose instead to focus on the now.

“Well, let’s start from the beginning, then. What was the last thing you remember before you were stuffed in that body?”

Wouldn’t you believe it, that actually drew a smile from the angel. “I- ah, I’ve been helping people. And hunting too, when I can. Last week I found a pack of werewolves trying to convert an entire town — ”

“Holy shit, that was you?”

“Yes,” she paused a moment, and Sam could almost hear her preening a bit. “I had just finished exorcising a demon when I felt a call, a pull, towards this warehouse in Chicago. It felt like they were trying to summon me but I could still hear prayers for my help. When I arrived, a girl was chanting — I can get you the exact words later — and willingly gave herself up to the others in the room.” Cas paused a moment to reflect upon what had become of the girl’s soul.

“Whatever spell they put me under warped my perception. I couldn’t tell if they were demons or humans, but the air tasted of sulfur. That’s the last thing I remember before being forcibly ripped from James Novak’s body.” A shudder ran down her spine. “That was hardly a pleasant experience.”

Yep. Same old Cas. “Yeah, I’ll bet,” Sam replied. “So how did you escape, if they knew you were coming?”

“Who — or what — ever set this up has no prior experience with angels. They didn’t trap me in holy fire, and the binding spell they used could only hold me temporarily. I easily lost them when I transcended planes to meet with Dean in his dream.”

“So where’s Jimmy?”

Castiel’s gaze turned downward, eyes burning holes into her hands. “I do not know. Leaving this one has prov—”

Sam turned to check on her. “Cas? What’s wrong?”

The angel closed her eyes and held absolutely still. “Someone is trying to summon me again,” she growled, reaching for the supply bag on the floor.

“Shit!” Sam swore loudly enough to wake Dean.

“Whahzappening?” Dean demanded, bolting up from his drool puddle on the bench. Using her angel sword, Castiel furiously scratched designs into her left forearm and finished it off with a mix of salt and holy water.

“Keep driving!” she commanded. Sam kept his eyes focused on the road, adrenaline causing him to push the pedal to the floor. Cas lunged for the backseat, grabbed Dean’s left wrist and yanked it over to her. Dean made a noise of protest as the blade descended, but made no move to reclaim his arm.

“What in the hell do you-“

“I need you to anchor me, Dean!” Castiel clarified, a frenzied edge to her voice. Dean winced at the first cut, but remained still, trusting the angel’s skill. She chanted, low and slow, while carving into Dean’s forearm.

“Repeat after me,” she said, cleaning his arm with salt and holy water. She ground out a few guttural syllables that Dean did his damnedest to repeat; Cas grabbed his chin with her uncut hand, forcing Dean to look her in eye.

“Again!”

Dean repeated the phrase, afraid to break eye contact. The third time he growled the phrase, Castiel joined in, slapping her forearm against his so her palm lay flat over his artwork, and vice versa. A bright white light flashed through the Impala, and Cas shouted something about braking before the spell overtook the car.

Dean uncovered his eyes, having assumed the crash position upon teleportation, to find 1) the vehicle had stopped, 2) they were in the middle of a field, 3) it was now daylight and 4) the blood on his arm had vanished, the cuts melted into a brand, smooth and flush against his skin.  
“There,” Castiel sighed, leaning back. “We are hidden again.” Dean was not about to let the fact that she looked so damned cute with that small grin on her face stand in the way of getting some answers.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, incredulous. “And where the hell are we?”  
“That was a binding spell, of sorts. Just before it finished, I transported us the last 50 miles and a few hours into the future. It’ll be impossible for them to summon me now.” She turned expectantly to Sam. “You can keep driving. Go straight. We’ll hit a road in a few feet. Take it left.”

Still trying to regain control of his thoughts, Sam just stared stupidly at Cas for a few seconds, hands in the air, before he abruptly grabbed the steering wheel. “Yeah, okay, I’ll-uh—yeah. Driving.”

“How sure are you they can’t find us?” Dean asked accusingly. His voice had a bit more acid to it than necessary, and Sam let him know it with a glare.

“Positive,” she replied softly, hands smoothing out the wrinkles in her sleeves. Cas’s dazzling blue eyes flicked up to him, as she said “I hid the whole of my grace inside you, Dean.”

Everyone in the vehicle could practically hear the little hamster running his fat ass off inside Dean’s head as he tried to comprehend what he had just heard.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with a tight smile across his face as he shook his head to clear out the previous phrase, “what did you just say?”

Sam turned left onto the dirt road moving them along swiftly enough. Unerringly, Castiel replied with the same phrase, and the same inflection.

“I hid the whole of my grace inside you, Dean,” she said it so softly, so full of innocence, like a lover’s confession. Dean had to lick his lips a few times and clear his throat a few more before his mind finally kicked over to run full throttle. In true Dean-style, he had to cover for what could have been an actually appropriate emotional response through excessive anger.

“And how is that possible, exactly?!” he demanded, managing not to wince at how harsh it sounded. Sam did so on his behalf instead.

“Dean,” she spat derisively, the name nearly an insult, “You were destined to contain Michael himself. You could easily take in three of me without suffering any damage. Besides, the task is not without its benefits. You’ll have some new-found talents as payment for carrying the burden.”

Try as he might, Dean couldn’t turn ‘take in three of me’ into a dirty joke without it making himself sound like a woman, so instead he mumbled back feebly, “You’re a new-found talent.”

Sam promptly burst out laughing.


	3. Why Can't Demons Perform Secret Rituals in a Penthouse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no porn. Disappointing, I know.

A multitude of abandoned factories littered the Midwest, and Chicago held no exception to the rule. This particular eyesore had clearly decorated the area for at least 30 years. Every ounce of sellable metal had been stripped off by scrappers, every window broken by several generation’s worth of bored kids, and graffiti littered the outside, sporting everything from lazy initials to detailed murals. A place like this has history, Dean thought, and the main entrance was no stranger to the decorations it now sported. Judging by the frayed ends flapping in the wind, he guessed the police tape marked off the building as a no-fly zone for at least a week.

The inside looked as inviting as the outside, used needles and dead rats greeting them as cheerfully as a welcome mat. Beautiful. Sam trudged in after Cas, dutifully sporting the supply bag. Dean swung his head ‘round, his instincts telling him that something was nearby. He found Cas standing uncomfortably close to him, something Dean hadn’t noticed for quite some time. The proximity was far too intimate for his comfort- Cas shot a small smile at him and Dean had to force his attention back to Sammy, who brought up the rear.

“ _This_ ,” he emphasized in disbelief, gesturing to his surroundings, “is where you woke up?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it,” she replied flatly, leaving the brothers to go inspect another room. Dean wondered if the culprits had chosen to be excessively stereotypical on purpose, or if they were just that lame.

The trio took their time sweeping through the area, slowly examining every corner before moving on to the next room. On the next floor up, as he tried to focus on the task at hand, Sam realized three things. First off, whoever had done this already cleared out whatever they used to do it with. Any sigils drawn were easily covered by graffiti; any ingredients needed brought in and then removed. B), the evil masterminds were some kind of demons (big surprise), based on the amount of sulfur at every entryway and each window. Third, and most importantly, was the way the angel and his brother kept staring at one another when they thought the other couldn’t see.

Dean never caught Castiel watching him open doors to ensure they didn’t fly off the hinges. Cas never noticed Dean stealing glimpses to assure himself that the angel was handling the new body alright – neither saw the other, but each continued on as though Sam were blind to them both, like his own personal soap opera. Today, on Touched by an Angel…

Now really, it was understandable that Dean would worry about Cas being chained to a body that could not contain him. And honestly, it was perfectly normal that Castiel would worry about the contract she had just forged with Dean, since the conditions and intricacies of it were beyond the understanding of the trio. One could probably list about a dozen perfectly legitimate reasons as to why Dean would worry about Cas, or Cas would worry about Dean. But Sam could see a glaringly obvious one in the way Castiel’s eyes fell on his brother’s shoulders each time his back turned, or in the way Dean’s eyes followed Castiel’s ass whenever she bent over.

He wondered if singing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” would be too obvious.

Sam was seconds away from calling their bluffs when he noticed an unusual patterning in the soot beneath his feet.

“GUYS!” he shouted to Dean and his not-girlfriend. Castiel strode over quickly, heels clicking across the floor. She knelt down, expression unchanged as her fingers lightly caressed the edge of the burn mark on the floor.

Though Castiel’s face stood as still as stone, her eyes seemed to deepen, every ounce of pain she felt reflected in those sapphires. Dean pondered how that look must be unique to Castiel, as he had seen the very same expression of hurt on the face of James Novak.

Castiel rubbed the soot between her fingers, taking note of the partial wingprint – only half of one wing had seared into the ground, but it was enough to recognize the implication. She laid her hand flat in the center of the grave marker, as if to channel some knowledge from it.

“There was a time,” Castiel began, eyes noting every detail of the design, “that when an angel died, the whole host knew, and turned their voices to a song of mourning. Now a death is too common for them to care, and too few remain to fill the heavens with music.”

A later reflection of this point in time would clarify to Dean the exact extent of his stupidity in allowing himself to get caught up in the sadness of her eyes, the pain behind the words, and the grief at how easy seeing a death had become. He let his guard down. By now you would think that Dean had learned when in a warehouse previously used as a base for what was at the very least demons (if not worse), you never let your emotions rule your head. That was rule number one – just shove it aside and get shit done.

So it was no surprise at all, as mesmerized as he was, that the welcome party managed to get a drop on them.

The first two appeared out of nowhere, and while one threw Sam against the wall (causing Sam to promptly drop the bag), Dean was somehow able to resist said ragdoll-syndrome. Not hesitating to wonder where that luck came from, he clocked the short one -who was still confused as to why Dean wasn't a picture frame- and turned to slash the one holding Sammy down. Letting the hellspawn slump to the ground, he tossed the supply pack at his brother, then turned back to face the other one – nope, make that three – he had previously ignored.

He spotted Cas, frozen on the ground in front of the wingprint, clearly avoiding the fight. Even though Dean’s adrenaline-filled thoughts couldn’t comprehend why, a twang of fear shot straight through him. Something about Cas hiding in the corner was … not good.

Flipping the knife to a backhand grip, he circled the demons, working his way between them and Castiel. The first one to realize his plan got a nice long gash up the abdomen for her smarts. The next one made a break for Cas, forcing Dean to throw the knife to save the angel. The final demon managed to get a hand on Cas’s trench coat before Dean tackled her. They wrestled for control, Dean’s hands on the demon’s throat, the possessed soccer mom kicking and biting for freedom. She managed to gain the advantage and pin Dean to the ground before his anger suddenly boiled over. With a blinding flash of light, the demon dropped.

New-found talents, indeed.

“What in the hell was that?” Sam asked incredulously, holy water in one hand, ready to jump in and save the day moments before Dean Superman-ed the demon to death.

“He smote it,” Castiel stated. Really, it was rather obvious. And Sam was supposed to be the smart one.

“You stupid sonofabitch,” Dean yelled from the ground. He pushed up off the floor, all thoughts on his new skills forgotten, replaced by an anger he normally only reserved for when Sammy fucked things up. “WHY didn’t you tell me that you were human?” Castiel stole a glance at the ceiling, and then turned her eyes back to her shoes. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, attempting to spin thoughts into words.

“Castiel, _why didn’t you tell me that you are human?!_ ” he demanded again, eyes never leaving her.

“What part of ‘my grace is hidden in you’ did your dull capacities not comprehend?” she snapped back, sapphires glittering in defiance. The air hung thick with unspoken fears. ‘I didn’t want you to say no’ her eyes screamed in between the lines, 'I didn’t want you to worry.'

Dean wiped a drop of blood from a corner of his mouth where generic demon #2 had landed a hit. He closed his eyes and turned slightly aside. _Stupid, stupid, stupid sonofabitch._

“Can you be possessed?” Sam asked, concerned; as if they didn’t have enough problems to deal with.

“No,” she replied immediately, causing Dean to wonder if the angel was talking out of her ass. “No, the spell – they can’t get in, I can’t get out. I just —” She looked down at her body, turning her hands over to inspect them, “ – without any powers, this body is unbelievably weak. I wouldn’t win in a fight with a fish. It’s unstable too.”

That comment elicited a sympathetic smile from Sam, but Dean was still annoyed at how it all played out. Sam could read the particular flavor of anger on his brother’s face- he’d been on the receiving end one too many times. It was ironic to Sam, in a tragic sort of way, that a watcher of humanity such as Castiel was completely unable to see what Dean’s actual problem was.

It was the reason why Sam’s heaven had been such a nightmare; the reason why leaving Cas in purgatory wasn’t an option, and the reason why he had looked for their father so frantically when he had gone. Like a neon sign, the problem burned brightly across Dean’s face: ‘ _I can't stand to lose you. And today, I could have lost you, you asshole_.'

Dean reached down and picked up the supply bag. “C’mon,” he said, throwing it over his shoulder, “Angel deaths are messy. The police might have some info on this one.”


	4. Obligatory Diner Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nope, still not sexy times yet. Wait until about chapter 6. Maybe. no promises.

Dean pulled the Impala into the first diner they passed, then promptly pulled back out when Sam said he couldn't get a wifi signal. Having reclaimed his title as master and commander of the Impala, Sam was immediately promoted to shotgun, while Cas was relegated to the backseat, where she spent most of the trip pretending she couldn't see Dean's piercing glare fixed on her via the rear-view mirror. 

His anger permeated the silence, making the remainder of the trio ill at ease; each wanted to break the spell, but didn't want to incur the wrath of Dean and make things worse. It reminded Sam far too much of his father, of all those times where a hunt went bad, either by fault or fate, and John would attack anything the boys had to say but still demanded that they say something. They'd apologize. Say that they were sorry. He would shout how he knew they were sorry, but was sorry gonna fix the gashes on his arm? Is sorry gonna keep Sam safe at night? Is sorry gonna kill that ghoul? Is sorry gonna bring your mother back? _Answer me goddammit!_

“Earth to Sam!” Dean shouted, snapping the younger Winchester out of his less than fond reminiscing. He turned to his brother, a non-verbal request to repeat the question. 

“I asked if you had a signal yet,” Dean said, annoyed at having to repeat himself. They had pulled into yet another parking lot, and he waited for confirmation before shutting off the car. 

“Huh? Oh. Uh,” he glanced down a the computer in his lap. “Yeah, I've got a signal.” 

Rather than reply, Dean yanked the keys out, wrenched his door open and slammed it shut; Cas chose to leave out of the passenger’s side rather than tempting life and limb. 

The diner was packed with the post church lunch rush, pissing off Dean in two new ways at once. The hostess hastily sat the trio at a 4 top, then bustled off before they could even order coffee. Dean instinctively sat across from Sam, unwittingly leaving room for Cas on either side. The angel brought up the rear of the group, and settled in with Dean on her right, Sam on her left. 

Before anyone could utter anything they might later regret, a waitress dropped off 3 cups of coffee and then vanished into thin air. Delighted and curious, Cas let the heat of the porcelain warm through her hands before finally taking a sip of the tar-like liquid. Much to her surprise, it didn't taste utterly repulsive, and the heat in her belly had a calming affect on her nerves. 

“No wonder you drink this stuff,” she said, apparently addressing the whole of the human race, as she looked at no one in particular when she spoke. Sam smirked at the comment and pulled out his laptop, resuming the earlier search for information on the warehouse. Dean, of course, refused to partake in any fraction of the joy Cas radiated from her new human experiences, keeping the same annoyed look plastered to his face the whole time. 

“What aren't you telling us?” he asked bluntly, and in reply, Cas furrowed her brow and tilted her head. Her emotional response aimed at 'confused' but came out more as a mix of 'concerned' and 'I want to suck your cock.' Dean was torn between shifting uneasily in his seat in response to the angel's gaze, or holding his angry deadpan until he got an answer. He chose option B. 

“The spell that I cast was akin to a contract,” she started, eyes on Dean. “It is not typically.... applied in this way. Humans contract with angels to use the power of their grace; the most well known occurrence of this is with Sampson.” 

Dean gave a curt nod as though he understood, not wanting to be the only one at the table who had no idea what the fuck was going on. From the way Sam looked, he clearly knew what Cas was talking about, so Dean would just worry about that part later. Cas opened her mouth to speak again when a waitress rushed up. Vexed at the interruption, Dean hastily ordered for himself and Sam, then started to wave the girl away when Cas spoke up and ordered some pancakes. The second she turned her back, Dean went back to hounding Castiel. 

“How is it in any way helpful for your to handicap yourself like this?” he asked, not at all gently. 

“I had to place all of my grace into you, Dean,” Castiel replied, annoyed at his hostility. She took a moment to focus on pouring 3 creamers and 2 sugar packets into her coffee before continuing. “Normally, it's only a piece of me tied to you. The human can make use of angel's grace, and the angel can sustain themselves in a … less than ideal vessel. I can walk the earth in someone who is only distantly related to my true vessel.” Cas experimentally sipped the coffee, then looked up expectantly at Dean.

“Still seems too easy to gank you,” Dean said, eyes narrowing. She was hiding something else, too, he could feel it. He just didn't know what. 

“So get this,” Sam interrupted from behind his laptop. “Two weeks ago, police found the body of one 'Jacob Taylor' inside that warehouse off I-94. They interviewed a Miranda Scott, his long term girlfriend, but came up with nothing. They're calling it an OD,” he reported, then looked up from the screen, “How much do you want to bet that she noticed when the guy turned angel?” 

Conversation continued in that manner until the food arrived, when the spectacle of watching Castiel eat put everything else on hold. 

Dean stared. He knew it was obvious, he knew Sammy could see him openly gape at Cas. But given the oddity of the situation, it was warranted. Even Sam gave a sideways glance and a snort. The difference, of course, in how they stared, was that Sam watched her wolf down the breakfast combo like it was her last, with the same ferocity as when famine had hit Jimmy Novak, whereas Dean watched as she sucked the drips of maple syrup off her fingers. 

“So what were you saying about this contract?” Dean asked, trying vainly to ignore how the angel licked the sticky spots off her palm. How the fuck did she get syrup there anyways? She was using silverware, afterall. 

“I'm eating. Can't this wait?” she replied, shoving a piece of bacon in her mouth. His eye twitched in concentration. It was too much. 

“Dammit Castiel!” he shouted, pounding a fist against the table, “put the fucking fork down and answer me!” 

To the surprise of both Winchesters (especially considering the ferocity she had attacked the plate with), Castiel set down her fork and knife, and looked up at Dean. 

“We have a contract. I store my grace in you. You gain abilities of my grace as a result. They manifest differently for each person. As payment for the use of my grace, you must adhere to the rules of the nazirite.” She droned on in a dull tone, as if reading the rules and conditions of a library card. 

“You cannot cut your hair, nor your beard. You cannot copulate outside of a previously agreed-upon union.”

Dean shoved a hunk of sausage inside of his mouth as he contemplated this. That wasn't too hard, he thought. The job couldn't last more than a week, and he had been in dry spells much longer than that. 

“Okay, I can do that,” he replied. 

“You also cannot consume alcohol,” Castiel said in a small voice. 

“ARE YOU FUCKING--” Dean nearly went nuclear on the angel before realizing that making a scene in a crowd of church goers would only result in the cops being called. Which he did not need. He took in a deep breath, then forced direct eye contact with the girl. 

“Fine.” 

“Fine.” 

And with that the conversation was over. He went back to digging his breakfast, determined to enjoy some decent eggs for once. Castiel did not move. 

“May I resume eating?” she asked, quietly enough for Dean to fluster his next words. 

“I- yeah, I mean- fuck-- Cas, you don't need my permission to eat.” 

“Actually, I do,” she said, cutting her pancakes apart. “While in contract with you, I must do anything you say when you invoke my full name.” 

Dean's face nearly flushed bright right red with all the deliciously dirty possibilities that pulled up. Instead, he focused his attention on the breakfast platter in front of him.

Cas attacked her own plate with redoubled ferocity, and Sam picked at his eggs and toast while looking up the details of their latest pertinent witness. None of them were even looking up when the waitress dropped her tray. Everything was over in a few seconds, but a few seconds where all that was needed. 

Dean moved first, reacting with borrowed reflexes. Before anyone could blink, he had ditched his chair and flung himself in between the perceived threat and Castiel, arms tensed at each side, ready to react to any possible harm towards the angel. Being further back, Sam was covered via proxy, anything wanting to get to him having to go through Cas first. Castiel turned toward the movement of her charge, and found herself face to face with his shoulders, a single thought crossing her mind. 

That's not possible. 

In another plane of existence, one that the rest of the restaurant could neither see nor understand, two glorious pinions flared from his back, bright gold, in a dazzling display of protective fear. They curved instinctively inwards, shielding her from any possible harm. As he unfurled them, the lights of the restaurant dimmed, unable to persist in the presence of such unrestrained grace. Her mind floundered, too much information registering at once. Wings. Dean had wings. _Dean_ had _wings._ Beautiful golden wings, each feather perfectly formed, untainted by the hazards of life. And he was trying to protect her with them. 

Before Dean even knew what he was doing, the perceived threat was over, and he quickly covered his unbeknownst actions by sauntering over to the waitress and cleaning the mess she had made. Even Sam had barely reacted towards the flickering lights, looking up just in time to notice them stop. He brushed it off as a short from the heat wave. Cas looked to him and wished she could as easily brush off what she just saw, but the image of the elder Winchester's broad shoulders burned in her memory and made her blush. Dean laughed heartily as he made an effort to assist the girl cleaning the floor, only to be sent back to his seat. 

Castiel couldn't help staring. He reacted out of fear for her, fear for her safety. No matter what he said, how he would try to make light of what occurred, his wings could not lie. And those wings were ready to beat the everlovingfuck out of someone. Castiel shook her thoughts to focus on the nagging thought in the back of her head. 

How in the hell did Dean manage to manifest wings? 

Mankind had always utilized the grace of an angel in different ways. Castiel had always attributed it to the creativity of humanity. Some gained strength, others speed; some healed instantly, some could go for days without sleep. On the very, very rare occasion one could tap the deeper strengths and manifest an angel blade. One in a thousand years could produce an angel's sword without effort. But none, not a single soul in the history of existence could produce wings. Wings were a trait of angels and angels alone. 

Or so she had thought. Yet once more, Dean Winchester had manged to break every rule she had ever orchestrated about the universe. Funny how he always surpassed expectations like that. She stared after him with such determination that she didn't even register, at first, when the coffee hit her lap instead of her lip. 

Sam didn't notice any of the exchange that had occurred between the two. He did notice the look on Castiel's face as she cleared hot coffee from her legs.


	5. Narcissus Never had This Issue

By the time Dean sauntered back, he found the table in complete disarray. Cas was in the midst of frantically trying to wipe hot coffee off her thighs, Sam leaned over to the next table, stealing some napkins to soak up the mess. Cas squeaked in pain every time Sam tried to blot the liquid off her lap. Dean, in damage control mode, snatched a clean towel from a waitress, soaked it in Sam's ice water, knelt down, and laid it on Cas's legs. The sudden absence of pain was such a shock she moaned quietly in relief and despite the the outward calm with which he held the towel, Cas's happy noises sent Dean's mind reeling. 

A smile crept across her face, watching his hands in her lap. She turned to thank him, but first caught sight of his shoulders, sending her thoughts back to those honey-toned pinions he hid, and immediately turned an impressive shade of red. Dean noted the color change and smiled sympathetically. After all, nobody was proud of dumping coffee on themselves.

"Just -- hold that there, okay?" he instructed, standing up. "I'll go pay, then we'll find someplace to hole up for the week, get you cleaned up," he said, turning to leave. Cas remained extremely interested in her own fingertips until Dean turned his back; her eyes eagerly sought the secret he hid there. They were tucked away for now, hidden from prying eyes, but she could distinguish the glimmering outline of the upper ridges as they swayed with his walk. 

They were gorgeous. 

To see Dean in wings at all was a treat beyond Cas's wildest imagination. For them to look as breathtaking as they did -- she shouldn't have expected anything less from the righteous man. In the car on the way to the motel, she spent her time desperately trying to look out the window, at the ceiling, at the floor, anywhere but the driver's seat, but her eyes had a mind of their own. Dean had relaxed a bit more, and his wings fluttered in and out of her sight, making for a huge distraction. Their beauty could drive an angel to jealousy. 

To say they were gold was grossly oversimplifying the complex pulchritude she saw. They were two-toned, for one thing, the back darker than the front. From behind, the pinions shone with a dark fury, bronze and warlike and full of rage. From the front they sparked brightly, gleaming with the radiance of the sun shining through a glass of whiskey on a summer afternoon. Mottled specks densely decorated the top ridges, mirroring the freckles on his nose and cheeks; every shift in his seat sent a rippled glimmer through the feathers, like wheat swaying in the wind. She found herself imagining what they would feel like, wrapped around her, as she stroked through the soft down. 

Her face burned when she realized exactly where her mind had wandered. She should be ashamed, but her new-found humanity overrode shame with want. Funny how one thought could block out and blind any other emotion. With sudden clarity, Dean's endless self sacrifice for Sam struck her. She always admired Dean's loyalty to family, his devotion to his brother; she had even emulated that on multiple occasions, a martyr for the cause, for humanity, for her charges. But something drove that thought home much faster, that willingness to die for them, or even harder, live for them. 

The motel looked about as clean as you'd expect for thirty bucks a night. Dean had debated the whole way over if he should get two rooms or one. Normally he'd never think twice about shoving Cas in a room alone (there are only so many times a man can wake up with another man staring at you like a stalker before you go insane), but the was human and hunted; Dean couldn't risk her in a room alone, and if she was gonna bunk with one Winchester, she might as well bunk with both. But that also meant spending a lot of close personal time with someone he had actively tried to bang (an failed). The fact that it had occurred in a dream changed nothing. Plus she'd have to sleep somewhere. Humans do sleep after all. He could zonk out in the same bed as Sam no problem (so long as he didn't steal the sheets), but he had this sneaking suspicion that Sam would volunteer to take the impala or something to force the two of them to chat. God that kid was a pain. A thirty year old, seven foot one, Sasquatch sized pain. 

_Suck it up, Winchester._

He booked a double and went to gather his two personal grievances from the car. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon entering the room, Castiel made a b-line for the bathroom, for which Sam was eternally grateful, because trying to explain to Cas why she shouldn't parade around half naked in front of Dean was not something he was keen on doing. That relief was short lived, though; as the boys finished changing, she came out of the restroom with her pants hung over the shower curtain, and one half of her shirt was stuck in the top of her panties, and of course, the trenchcoat's still on. Oblivious to the fact that she just made everyone else in the room feel as though they'd entered a porno, Castiel walked back over to the duffel sitting on the table. She intended to put up some extra wards around the room for when the boys slept.

"Cas," Sam started, "What are you doing?" 

"Putting up wards," she answered simply. She turned to face the brothers, and his sarcastic retort stopped short; she tucked the shirt into her underwear so the tails wouldn't rub over the giant red blisters starting to form on her thigh. 

A thought took control of Dean's body, and before his brain could kick in, he walked over to the girl, raised his hand, as though to touch two fingers to her forehead, then changed his mind and cupped her cheek instead. Before she could warn him that it wouldn’t work, that a human can only tap into so many aspects of an angel's grace, the redness had vanished and the skin shone flawlessly. Dean sat in the chair to get a better look at her leg, making sure his handiwork hadn't dislocated her femur or something. She stood there, one arm on his shoulder for balance, with his face inches from her skin as he inspected the area where the blisters once were. 

"How did you do that?" she asked him incredulously. Dean flicked his head up, puzzled. 

"I dunno. You do it all the time, I just kinda copied you." 

"You shouldn't even have that capability," she said, licking her lips and staring into him. How did he keep doing this? She pondered for a moment before adding, "If I had use of my grace I could look into this." 

Dean pushed her a step back so he had space to stand up. Having spent the last 10 minutes pretending not to exist so he could watch the awkward flirting, Sam looked up from his computer, A tension ran through the air, but it was no longer sexual. 

The bag on the table suddenly became of singular interest to Dean, who started rummaging through it to find his favorite cache of items to store in his suit. The sudden disinterest confused the angel, who tried to reach for the salt in the bag to guard the windows, only to have Dean's hand grab it first. He looked over his shoulder at Cas. 

"Go put your pants on. We'll leave soon," he said, waving her towards the bathroom. She hesitated, staring at him; his wings were out again, slightly peaked in annoyance. But when she returned, Dean's brow was furrowed and his gaze bore through her. 

"You're hiding something else," he accused, and no, no, no- she found herself praying to a god she didn't believe in when she realized he could order her to tell him about his wings. As selfish as it was, she did not want anyone else to know, not even Dean, because once he became aware, he'd automatically hide them to keep himself protected. 

"Dean," Sam started from across the room, trying to intercept what was already coming. Dean looked at his brother. 

"See, since this whole thing started, something's bothered me," he went on, then turned back to Castiel. _This one joy, couldn't she just have this one joy?_

"I want to know why it is that Cas hasn't ever whipped out this little party trick for us before," he said, never breaking eye contact with the angel. Having made no attempt to reply, he kept going, and was starting to gather steam. 

"I can think of half a dozen different times that this little arrangement could've kept people from dying, or saved Sam and I from trying to sacrifice ourselves.” 

“Dean!” he interjected. 

“Shove it, Sam!” he commanded, still staring at the angel. “This is a big fucking gun, and I want to know why you didn't pull it out until now.” 

“Since meeting you I always seem to be working with a handicap,” she snapped. “I don't think I've been at full strength since - ”

“You were when Sam was soulless and we were playing monster delivery for your buddy Crowley,” he pointed out angrily. 

“I couldn't risk splitting my power!” she said with a derisive snort, as though any idiot could have seen that. “I made that deal because I didn't have enough as it was to-” 

He continued to prevent her from finishing a sentence, which worked her up even more. “And when we first met?” 

“I was supposed to hand myself over to a human I had never met?” she asked, leaning in, hoping he would see the stupidity of that idea for himself. His stone-faced anger shot down any hope of logic getting though. “You would never have done that!” 

He remained unconvinced. “What about when you were falling,” he demanded, slowly yet steadily raising his voice, “we could have had two angels on that battlefield, Cas.” 

“And have you use it for what? Waste it all in a futile effort heal Bobby?”

“There had to be some moment, from then until now, that you could have laid this offer on the table -” 

“The laws of the Nazarite are absolute. You cannot make one transgression, or it nullifies the whole thing!"

“Oh, so you just didn't trust me,” he accused her, nodding his head. 

“I couldn't even trust you not to give into Michael," she shot at him, "how could I trust you to stop drowning yourself in a bottle every night?” 

That one seemed to hit somewhere close to home. He tightened his fist in an attempt to control himself. "A lot of shit's happened since then." 

"And yet," she said, throwing up her palms, "here we are." 

“Yeah, here we are again," he shouted, "with someone whining about how they can't up and leave when shit gets tough.” 

“Dean!” Sam shouted from across the room. 

"Don't even start on me," Dean said, whipping his head around to face his brother, "I've seen your idea of happiness. I'm surprised you hadn't already taken Amelia's last name by the time I came back."

"How many times are you –" Sam started, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. 

"I was gone in purgatory for a fucking year," Dean yelled, glad to finally say it succinctly, an accusatory finger stabbing in Sam's direction, "And you never even bothered -- "

"I am sick of you holding that over me!" Sam shouted as he stood up to loom over Dean. "When I jumped in the pit you never came looking --" 

"I wanted to!" he shouted frantically before turning away. 

"But you DIDN'T and I was GLAD!" Sam barreled on, "I was happy you found something-"

Dean's attention snapped back around to Sam, "Don't you fucking dare," he growled.

"Happy that you had Ben and Lis-" 

His fist was moving before Sam had finished the first forbidden name, but the younger Winchester knew it was coming, and had twisted Dean's arm into a hold, shoving him face-down into the mattress in seconds. He resumed shouting. 

"And when I do the same thing you RESENT me for it?" he asked incredulously. "You weren't even in hell! You could've died and went heaven for all I knew!" 

Dean managed to wrap his ankle around Sam's knee, kicking him down and wrestling free from the hold. He scrambled a moment to get across the room where he could shout in peace. 

"I didn't give a shit that you dropped my ass," he yelled, an accusatory glance also shot in Castiel's direction, "That writing's been on the wall for years." 

"Bullshit," Sam spat overtop his monolog. 

"You left KEVIN, shut off your phone and abandoned the kid without a hope in the world, the same fucking thing you'd always get pissed at Dad for -”

"Don't you fucking compare me to what that asshole did!" he shouted, striding towards Dean with the intent to engage before Cas put up a hand to hold him back. 

"You left a scared teenager, by himself without even lifeline to cling to, all so you could go play house with someone else's wife!" he yelled. 

"Dean!" Cas reprimanded him with her intonation alone. 

Sam bristled in silence, unable to reply because some piece him knew the truth in those words. Instead he grabbed his wallet and stormed out, stopping himself from doing something stupid. As he opened the door he gathered himself for one last retort, taking in a deep breath to at least pretend like he was calm. 

"Well at least when I found what I wanted," he said in a tightly controlled voice, "I wasn't too afraid to hang on to it!" 

The slam of the door echoed off the walls, emphasizing the empty silence.


	6. Didn't Icaraus teach you anything?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might be a little triggery for some people.

“You're sure this is the place?” Dean asked, staring at the unassuming little house in the middle of Gardenia Avenue. Event the name of the street seemed... too normal. Coupled with the happy trees and classic white picket fence, it seemed way to stereotypical that an angel would zap down into someone that lived _here_. 

Sam sighed. Screw up an address one time, be forced to answer stupid questions for the rest of your life. At least the shithead was talking to him again. “Yes, Dean, I am sure that this,” he gestured to his right, in the general direction of idealized suburbia that was Miranda's address, “is where the station said she lives. Both the cops and the press interviewed her, and she came off as the proper grieving widow.” 

“You said they weren't married,” Cas added from the backseat. 

“Irrelevant,” Dean declared, silencing both of them. “She's the best lead we've got.” He shifted the car to park and stuffed his fake badge into his coat pocket. 

“All right, Sam, you're with me. Cas, wait in the car,” Dean instructed as he wrenched the driver's side door open. 

“But Dean, I-” 

“ _Castiel,_ ” he pronounced each syllable with such weight that Cas wouldn't misunderstand the full meaning behind it, “wait in the car.” That slight abuse of power, of course, earned him a dirty look from Sam. He shrugged it off. Bigger fish to fry. 

The stairs creaked under the weight of the boys as they mounted the steps to the house. Dean wrapped his knuckles on the door, paused, then knocked again. He raised his hand to give the door a third pounding when an annoyed voice shouted, “I'm coming!”

The Winchesters took a moment to adjust their jackets before the door clicked open. Sam looked down to pull his badge out of the cheap linen lining, leaving Dean to greet the woman at the door. She opened it a crack, having chosen to answer them wearing only a man's button down shirt, poked her head through, and asked, “Can I help you?” 

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat; he took in a half gasp as his mind raced through the implications of what he saw. She had tried to hide it, letting her blonde hair fall messily about her face, but there was no question. There was a scar, a burn mark, the tips ending across her forehead and left cheek, flowing down her neck and partially on her left shoulder. It almost resembled – no, it definitely resembled – a wing, as if the shadow of a right wing fell on the left side of her body. 

It was the mark of an angel's passing. 

Having found his badge, Sam flashed the fake all-access-pass and proceeded with questioning the girl. Having seen the look on Dean's face, the girl slammed the door forward and ran back into the house. 

Dean was in a daze, transfixed upon that feather-silhouetted burn across the girl's left eye. Too many thoughts invaded his mind all at once, leaving his body to work on automatic. As if being pulled by a string, Dean pushed the door open to follow the girl, to ask her how and why. 

He made it a full step before being blasted with a shotgun. 

Dean went down, hard; Sam's gun was half out the holster when the second shot caught him in the chest. A cloth rag covered his face, and everything went black. 

***  
The world around him reformed slowly, shapeless masses of light and dark quickly focusing into furniture as Dean became cognizant enough to remember that danger lurked about. A fresh breath of air pierced his lungs as he gasped in, panic surging through and through. Sam. Sam had been shot. Dean tried to stand, only to fall on his head, realizing he'd been tied up, both arms and legs bound. Whoever had them was smart enough to realize that the Winchesters warranted some serious restraints. He struggled to get upright, to evaluate the current situation, and liking it less and less. The hardwood floor he sat on was decorated in sigils surrounded by a circle, and he guessed that was supposed to hold him if the restraints didn't.

“Relax,” Miranda advised, and sensing the source of the issue, added, “Your partner is just fine. Got the same rock salt and chloroform treatment you did.” She gestured to her right, and sure enough, Sam lay in a crumpled heap, duct tape around his wrists and ankles. 

“You'll note,” she continued on in her best salesman’s voice, “the duct tape layer over top of your hand cuffs; I ain't fucking around.”

Memories came flooding back to him, each wave crashing with a new onset of emotion. Concern for his brother, pity for the girl – but most strongly – fear for his angelic charge. Must've been the contract fueling that. Dean managed to get upright, determined to work with her, if that's what it took to get his answers about Cas. 

The blonde was in no such hurry. She perched on the kitchen counter, facing the two prisoners, feet on a bar stool, slowly sucking in a cigarette as if it tasted sweeter than mother's milk, inhaling in a way that was desperate yet savoring, breathing in like a drowning man would once surfacing. Both elbows leaned against one knee, she leaned back while peering at them down her nose; she dropped the cigarette down to sigh out the smoke and size up Dean. Her left arm splayed out, flicking some ash onto the floor. She waited for him to make the first move. 

Small annoyed noises to his left distracted Dean from whatever line of questioning he wanted to start. Sam groaned, none too happy with the fact that he had just regained consciousness. 

“You're tied up but alive, little brother,” Dean gruffly informed him, trying to gain a bit of trust from their captor by revealing a vulnerability while simultaneously apprising Sam of the situation. She wasn't a demon, nothing hideous hid beneath the pain written on her face. Based on the past two week's events, she was either in cahoots with the demons, or a victim of their plans. Angel wings burned into the ground, a killer didn't get them imprinted onto their skin; a friend did. Friend who held you in their arms as you died. A good friend. Dean bet on that thought a bit too heavily, to the point where it twinged on hope. He blamed the contract with Cas; it made him worry excessively. 

“Little brother? So FBI lets family be partners, now? Mister,” she squinted at the signature on the badge, “Angus Young? How in the everloving fuck did you pass as an agent to the local cops?” She sighed, dragging on the cigarette again. “No, don't answer that, they're all fucking retarded.” 

A large picture window behind their guard let an abundance of light in on the little counter island that the girl sat upon. Two other windows framed the door in the front, all open and easy for the shattering; so why hadn't their guardian girl come charging in yet? Not that she'd win in a fight like this, but Dean felt slightly disappointed that she didn't even try to charge in, guns blazing to the rescue. 

Despite his personal pride in keeping emotions hidden, the inner monologue must have written itself across his face, because Miranda immediately added, “Your little slice of heaven can't get in here; I've got the place very well covered, so don't expect backup anytime soon.” 

Sam sat up, now cognizant enough to realize how well and truly fucked they both were. He spit some of his hair out and whipped his head back, trying to get the crap out of his face. No luck. It just all fell back in front of his eyes again. He sighed. It was the little things that get under your skin. Miranda laughed. 

“Havin' trouble there, Sammy Hagar?” she asked, sliding off the counter to approach him; she pocketed the fag in the corner of her mouth, and pushed his hair behind his ears for him, smiling as she let her fingertips trail off his cheeks. That's when he noticed. 

Sometimes the strangest things can jog your memory; it was the shirt that sold her out, gave up that dirty little secret she loved to hide. It was summer, and at least eighty degrees in here; sure she wasn't wearing pants, but it still seemed odd to wear something long sleeved in the middle of August. The fabric clung to her arm wrong, as if stuck to her in odd places. The folds in her shirt, coupled with the grimace on her face when she brushed against something, sent Sam reeling back in time to his Stanford days. Back to Jess. Back to Veronica, Jess's roommate. Back to Veronica's constant supply of rubbing alcohol and gauze. And the full collection by X-acto. Back to her habit of wearing sweaters in the sweltering California heat. Back to those nights where Jess would come home and practice the principles of basic wound care, because if she couldn't stop, she could at least be clean. 

“We interrupted you, didn't we?” he stated, not unkindly. She stared at him a for a moment before turning over her left wrist and seeing the blood seeping through there. She scoffed. 

“You should bandage that,” he advised softly. Her right arm flew out of nowhere and clocked him in the face. Dean lunged forward, but was stopped by the circle, and forced to sit there, bristling. 

“Don't. Pity. me.” she growled out, leering over him.


	7. The best laid plans

She grabbed Sam by his hair and hoisted him upwards, giving a rough jerk to emphasize her point.

"Don't. Pity. Me." She growled, leering over him; she lacked the capacity to spin her all thoughts into proper words, instead relying on her demeanor to translate it all. I may hate me but you are not allowed to. I am so much better than you don't even think of looking down at me. I will beat the shit out of you to make myself feel better. Just those simple things that body language can speak. Lucky for Sam, guessing true emotions based on an angry stare constituted about half of his life at this point, so he knew better than to try to push her further. He smiled softly, sucking the blood off of his front teeth. 

Dean strained against the invisible barrier of the sigils, pushing as hard as he could until the force pushed back, bristling at the sight of his brother so manhandled.

"You listen to me you crazy bitch," Dean growled, trying to make himself as tall as possible while chained, "If you so much as break a hair off his lion mane so help me--" 

"So help you who?" she interrupted, sneering. "God? He's dead. The angels are of no use either, despite whatever your little pet has conned you with." 

Sam outright laughed, despite still being held right by the hair. "Lady, we are the last people you have to tell that to." 

She squinted at them, as though unconvinced by what clearly must be a façade; then her mouth dropped in a small 'o' as recognition sparked through her face. She ripped Sam's shirt down to peer at the tattoo on his chest, then dropped him like a piece of trash before either brother could make some kind of kink joke. 

"Oh fuck me. Of course I catch the Winchesters." Dean internally resented the way his last name spat from her mouth like some kind of disease. 

The wood bar stool grated against the floor as she dragged it out to perch on once more. The white dress shirt fluttered as she lifted herself onto the counter, pulled a zippo from her bra and lit up another cigarette, closing the metal with a familiar click. She looked up at the celebrities in front of her, one bleeding and the other trapped by some chalk lines, then rubbed her temples and sighed, having come to a decision. 

"Since you two little shits are either gonna get me killed or fuck things up," she said, pausing to breathe in, "I'm going to fill you in on what my life's been like for the last two weeks. And then you're gonna learn why you really, really don't want your little pet coming in here to rescue you." 

Miranda closed her eyes to concentrate on forcing the nicotine to work faster. When they opened, a glaze settled over her face. 

"Two weeks ago," she said, "I --" she paused for a moment to take a deep breath, voice already falling apart with just three words. 

"Jake died.” She stated this factually, somehow able to detach herself enough to get that bit out.

"Whoever caught and killed him though they had your precious little fairy. When they realized the mistake, he was kept as a lab rat instead, experimented on as insurance that everything would go according to plan once they caught the right one." 

She took another drag in, mentally prepping herself for the next section of the story. The train of thought crashed abruptly as the front door slammed open; Castiel burst though, shotgun in her hand and defiance in her eye. Dean was immediately grateful he constantly kept a small arsenal in the trunk. Though overjoyed at seeing her, the first words out of Dean's mouth were, "What the hell took you so long?" 

"You restricted me to the car,” she replied icily, shotgun at hip, slowly approaching Sam, her eyes glued to Miranda the whole time, "You're lucky your wording is imprecise." Dean found no decent reply to that, so he stayed silent. Castiel strode forward into the room, brandishing the firearm. Miranda didn't flinch, didn't move. She didn't even stop smoking. What she did do is languidly stare as Cas placed herself between the Winchester and his captor.

“How’d you get in here?” Miranda asked conversationally. As though a guest had come for dinner, not as though an angel had come for her two charges. Castiel chose not to reply, knowing full well that an honest reply could kill her, and a lie would take too much time. As the distance between them closed, Miranda exhaled, blowing smoke in Castiel's face, who instinctively coughed and recoiled. Dean blinked, and once his eyes opened, found the gun in Miranda's hands and Cas on the floor, the distinct impression of a sawed off's stock marring her left cheek. 

Miranda cocked the shotgun one handed, a thrusting motion up and down with her right arm, before butting it up against her shoulder. It wasn't until she popped the safety off that Dean realized she held every intention to fire. He screamed in protest, falling flat on his face in an attempt to stand; but the shot never came, and as it would turn out, Sam was to blame for Castiel's continuation of breathing. Pushing off his knees, he jumped in front of the barrel, landing with his face on Cas's thigh. Miranda huffed in annoyance, kicking Sam off the unconscious girl. 

"It's a shotgun. She's an angel. She'll be fine." 

"She's human!" Sam yelled, righting himself to look at Miranda. The blonde squinted, very clearly about to call bullshit on his assertion. She used the barrel of the gun to push back Castiel's left sleeve, observing the dark scar on the girl’s pale white skin. 

"Nope, definitely an angel," she said, kicking him harder. 

"She is! But right now she's human!" 

"I control her grace," Dean yelled. Miranda stared blankly at the boys, ash falling off the end of her cigarette. She lowered the gun and popped on the safety. 

"Well that was fucking stupid, wasn't it?" she replied, tapping her cigarette clean before wrapping her lips around it. 

Sam tried to roll himself off of Cas, and wound up twisting his arm instead. Miranda hoisted him up, then promptly shoved the shotgun into his back. 

"Walk," she commanded, directing him towards the stairs. "Stop walking, I shoot you. Piss me off, and I shoot your pretty little bird down there instead." 

He nodded compliance, not wanting to anger her further speaking. Dean briefly caught his eye, and immediately knew the game plan. Not that the game plan was terribly complex; get out, save Cas. He watched Miranda lead his brother up the stairs, then counted the number of his Sasquatch steps on the second floor. Third or fourth room on the right. He tried hissing to his counterpart, begging and pleading in a low voice. If she could just get up, they could get out of here. C’mon Cas. Cas. Cas! 

Miranda sauntered down the steps, shotgun slung over her shoulder; Dean was convinced that he must have pissed off the fates at some point in his life, because for the second time today, Castiel had the world’s worst timing, hands pushing herself off the floor just as Miranda arrived step on her back and shove her back down. 

“Oh no, no, no,” she tsked, rubbing the barrel along Cas’s cheek. “Don’t get up on his account. We’ve got plenty of time for you to rest. Ya’ll are gonna share a cell in the basement.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Basement’ was an inappropriate term for what lay beneath the floorboards of Miranda’s home. ‘Dungeon’ was far more accurate. Or ‘jail cell’. Or ‘Guantanamo Bay’. Dean shifted from one ass cheek to another, certain that both would be completely numb very soon. He very much hoped that the stickiness on the floor was caused by recent flooding. Highly unlikely. 

Miranda secured him before moving on to the far less coherent Castiel. Dean watched her every movement, a hawk-like glare following every place Miranda touched, every 

“Relax,” she suggested to Dean, buckling the shackles around Cas’s wrists. “I’m one of the good guys too, remember?” 

“Good guys don’t lock people up in a basement,” Dean spat, shaking his hands to test the new restraints. They attached to the wall via an impressively heavy chain. The wall was no weak point either, metal bolted securely into the concrete. Each wall displayed an array of spray paint artwork, warding against just about anything that could be kept away with a pen; devil’s traps, Enochian, Chinese, hell, even some Sanskrit decorated the interior. His own chain permitted him to go no further than the circle drawn into the concrete, intensely filled with Enochian sigils. Miranda looked down at him condescendingly. 

“Oh like you’ve never done this before. Bullshit. Ten bucks says your own brother’s been tied up at your own hand. ” 

Dean managed to steel his features perfectly as he realized just how accurate that statement was. Despite all manner of logic telling him otherwise, Dean tested the circle’s boundaries, trying to push beyond his allotted space. The shackles stopped him even before the spells did. He gave up for the moment, waiting for the girl to leave before trying further. Instead, she sat down on the bottom step of the basement to get a good view of her handiwork. 

“And let’s face it,” she said, motioning to the whole basement, “it’s not like this is gonna stop you three. You’re Winchesters for fucks sake; this’ll just slow you down long enough that you can’t follow me right away. I got a lead I want as much time alone with as possible. As much as you want these guys, I want them far, far worse,” she said, shooting a look towards Castiel. Her expression softened. 

“After all, she’s still alive. Hold onto that thought.” 

With that, Dean was left to his own thoughts. Never a good combination. One to be avoided at all costs, really. He strained to listen to the noises coming from above, and as soon as all ambient noise fell silent, he started to test his boundaries again. And wake the only thing one who could currently save him from himself. 

“CAS!” he shouted, trying to rouse the girl. She was chained in a fashion similar to himself, on the opposing wall of the basement. Luckily for the two of them, the basement was not blessed with an overabundance of width, and he reasoned that with a considerable amount of effort, the two of them could get close enough to get each other out. 

“CAS!” he yelled again. The girl shifted a bit at that one, but stayed down. Dean immediately wished he knew how in the hell angels infiltrate dreams. Mimicking Morpheus could really come in handy right now. He slotted his feet against the wall, held tight to the chains and pushed, hovering an inch off the ground as the irons supported his upper body, gaining about an inch closer to his friend. This helped no one, of course, but made him feel better. Ish. “CASTIEL OPEN YOUR GODDAMN EYES!” 

The angel roused from the near comatose state she was in, shaking her head a few times as she pushed off the cold concrete floor. 

“You don’t need to yell,” she grumbled, righting herself. Her tie stuck in the links of the chain, causing her to fall flat before untangling the mess and sitting up again. “I’m right here.” 

Dean huffed. Whatever. He’s alive, she’s alive, and Miranda left. Step two: 

“We need to get out of here,” he stated. Castiel looked directly into his eye. 

“Really? I thought I’d make us a nice pot of coffee while we wait for Miranda to return.” 

Sarcasm was far from an unusual occurrence in Dean’s life, but to hear it so succinctly from Castiel was quite odd. 

“Any ideas on how to get us out of here?” he asked, completely ignoring her previous response. Instead of answer, Castiel stared at the wall behind Dean, awestruck. It was the same look in her eye as when she tasted coffee the first time, or the time Cas confided in Dean an appreciation for all of ‘his father’s works.’ Dean twisted his head around, trying to get a look at what sigils had distracted her so, but nothing really stood out. By the time he turned back around, Cas had refocused. 

“Yes, I have a plan. If I take my grace back, I can break our restraints, and you can walk out of here.” 

“And leave you alone?” That premise sounded ridiculous. Cas rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, all alone for five whole seconds while you erase the wards on the door. How far to edge of the circle can you get?” 

The angel adopted an attitude with a just a bit too much sass in it for Dean’s liking. He repositioned himself in the same manner as before, feet braced against the wall, hands clasping the iron that kept him from misbehaving. He craned his neck out until his nose just brushed against that same force he felt earlier. 

“About here. My feet are chained too, otherwise I could just twist around. What’s your plan?” he asked, letting the chain go slack and falling to the floor to get a good look at her. 

“We need to touch, skin on skin, so I can take my grace from you,” she explained. Castiel positioned herself in a similar manner to Dean, pushing against the wall for support; that got them closer, but still a few inches away from her ward. Dean continued to strain forward, but that last gap could not close. 

“Hang on,” she said, shifting around. Dean relaxed his arms, letting the cool concrete penetrate though the sheen of sweat across his back. He took a deep breath, steading his heart rate, counting speckles on the ceiling. He heard her moving, grunt, shaking the shackles and swearing slightly. His head rolled to the side, trying to get a look at her. 

“The fuck you doin over there?” 

“There,” she declared in a strained voice, “try now.” She flipped over and repeated the motion; somehow they had gained a few inches; she climbed up the wall a step, using the lack of slack on the chain to her advantage, legs and arms bracing all of her weight; with that, Cas’s face hovered nearly over top Dean’s. She had closed her eyes to focus on bracing against the wall, but Dean kept his open to look at her, somehow only now seeing some piece of her true face, that bit which made Cas Cas. He closed his eyes and slowly raised his head to hers, regretting the loss that would follow.


	8. If I die, please delete my browsing history

The quality of doors in Miranda’s house frustrated Sam to no end. He appreciated them for the aesthetic pleasure and general security, but breaking one down took forever. A kick would only break his leg. The hinges hid behind some complex cover, so removing them proved impossible; he settled on climbing out of his prison’s window instead (oh the hazards of chaining someone to a bed) and venturing into the Impala for an ax. Cas already blew the front door open earlier; that left only the basement door to be destroyed. He slammed the trunk down, and jogged back inside. 

The bang and crack of the ax hitting the oak resounded through the basement, hitting Dean at his core where something inside freaked out at the possibility of Sam walking in on this scene. He shop, giving his lungs enough space to shout, “SAMMEY?” 

“DEAN?” came the reply between chops. A few more hits to the door. “Is Cas there?” 

“Yeah, Cas is here,” he answered, glancing toward the angel; she shifted away from Dean, wincing. A similar sheen of sweat spread across her forehead. 

Sam continued to hack at the door, thankful that for once in his life, time was somewhat on his side. Cas and Dean, though locked away, sat perfectly safe behind this door. Within talking distance, at least. He paused, the little brother part of his brain tempted to leave the both of them there for an hour or two to deal with each other. Instead, he kicked the wood apart, successfully disengaging the lock from the door. Gliding down the steps, ax in hand, he surveyed the scene; Cas sat up right, grimacing and sweating profusely. Her hands lay limply at her sides. Dean appeared positively rigid, a slight flush to his cheeks and sweat at his temples, his eyes glued on Sam, clearly anxious to leave the tight quarters. Sam smirked, tossing a lock pick on the ground near Dean, who glared at him. 

“The hell you grinnin' at? Get us out of here!” Dean commanded in his best 'I'm-the-older-one-now-do-what-I-say voice. 

“Get yourself out. Cas needs a hand,” Sam replied, producing another pick to attack Cas's cuffs with. He reached for the shackles, Cas making no effort to assist other than shifting her shoulders a bit. Lifting her wrists to get at the bits he needed to reach caused Cas to snap her head away from Dean, who only noticed because of the flutter of her hair. The first shackle unclasped and she turned back, fresh blood pooling at her lip. When removing the second cuff caused a sharp inhale, Sam placed a hand on her shoulder as he asked, “Cas, you okay?” 

“Please remove your hand,” she replied though a set jaw. “The weight is of great discomfort.” 

She immediately rose once he complied, the movement ungainly and awkward, completely unlike Castiel; after a moment of obvious staring, he realized she had not once moved her arms since her kicked down the door. 

Dean's eyes followed her steps towards him, a solid concentration on his face that had nothing to do with the already-picked lock of his right shackle. Castiel knelt down in front of him as his hands finally found the mechanism on his left cuff with a click. 

“I require your touch, Dean,” she requested. His mind halted at that. 

“...what?” 

She inhaled sharply, steeling her stomach to let a breathe out slowly; her arms brushed the ground limply, as if controlled only by gravity. 

“The human experience of pain is quite different,” she remarked, biting her lip bloody once more. Something in Sam's mind finally clicked. 

“Cas, did someone break your arms?” he asked, concerned. She gave a short huff. 

“No, I pulled them out of the sockets,” she remarked; Dean's eyes went wide with shock. 

“The fuck – just now?!” He shouted, reaching for her. Fucking angels and their fucking stupidity. Castiel leaned forward, trying to press her head close so Dean could heal her. 

“Yes, just now. Please fix them,” she asked, staring at him. He grabbed her face with both hands, cursing softly to himself for not noticing earlier. Friggin angel and her friggin need to self-sacrifice. 

The relief from pain hit her just as suddenly as before, eliciting a sigh of relief. Dean continued to hold her head, fingers wrapped in her hair, thumbs on her cheeks. He shook her head once to force the girl's eyes open. 

“You're a fucking idiot, you know that?” 

The tenderness of the statement forced Sam to turn away so Dean wouldn't see him smile. 

Dean dropped her face as suddenly as he'd grabbed it, making light work of the steps up to the ground floor, wings stretched out for additional balance. Cas stared at the empty space that he occupied a moment ago, trying to reassemble coherent thoughts from the mess her mind fell into at his touch. Touch felt so... electric as a Human. The slightest contact plunged through and through, consuming her with warm content and electric excitement all at once. She touch her own cheek, trying to duplicate the effect, but to no avail. Was all ouch like this? She couldn’t recall this sensation the last time she was human. The pads of her fingers mindlessly rubbed against her thumb, mind carding through old memories of similar experiences. Her eyes flicked to Sam, and on impulse, she reached a hand to his face. It took effort – he stood so much taller – but she managed to place a palm on his cheek and concentration on the result. 

Warm. He felt warm. Not just on her hand, but in her, through her chest down to her fingertips, warmth of a lazy afternoon drive in the impala. He smelled of old spice and worn jeans, of salt rounds and iron. Relaxing. Comforting. 

But not electric. 

Dean's touch sent her mind reeling for years, but only now did her body react in such an unsuppressed fashion. To have a vessel so completely out of her control felt... unsettling. The last time she inhabited a body with more control than her own grace, the apocalypse loomed overhead with such surety that no other thought seep through the cracks of her thoughts. But now the cracks split wide open to possibilities undreamed. Her heart raced. Her palms sweat. She no longer commanded a plethora of actions in her own skin. 

She never wanted it to stop. 

She pulled her her hand back, thundering up the stairs, trench coat fluttering behind her. 

***

Back in the kitchen, Sam muttered something about checking the fridge for booby traps before moving on to the rest of the house. Castiel eyed him suspiciously when he suggested she check the cupboards 'for spell ingredients.' She was elbow deep in spices when she heard the distinct crunch of teeth biting into apple. Curious, she shot a quizzical look at Sam, who's only explanation was to offer her a peach. 

“Is it wise to waste time like this?” she asked, sinking into the fruit, sucking in all the juices so they couldn’t dribble down her chin. Sam gave a half smile. 

“The key to where Miranda went is in her room,” he said, pulling out a Tupperware container. He peeled back a corner, sniffed the contents, and jerked his head back from the smell. “Which is where Dean is currently sulking because I broke out of the handcuffs first. He'll find whatever's up there. Might as well get dinner in the meantime.” 

A protest died on her lips, his argument too logical to refute. Which is why, twenty minutes later, when Dean yelled for help, Cas arrived in Miranda's bedroom with pasta sauce on her face. 

***

Seeing as Miranda lynch pined their current situation, Dean decided to start with her room first; he leaned against the doorway, surveying the scene, brow furrowed in frustration. An empty rum bottle sat next to the bed, a half full one keeping the first company; cigarette butts littered the carpet. A bottle of isopropyl alcohol and cause decorated her night stand. Dean stormed past all of them to overturn her mattress, revealing a startling lair of dust bunnies. 

Fuck Dean's life. His face itched where the stubble already started to grow past his usual length, the sensation distracting him from raiding Miranda's drawers; he barely registered how much black lace composed of her lingerie before his thoughts drifted to images of certain angels in certain compromising positions. That led to other thoughts, pre-vessel change thoughts, and suddenly his mind buzzed with things he normally drank into silence, but Cas revoked that item from the menu, too. He abandoned the drawers for the ceiling fan, running deft fingers along each blade to feel for warding. No luck. 

Fuck stupid self-sacrificing angels and their ability to turn his world around. He mentally ticked off the list of places to check: Ceiling fan empty, bed useless; desk next. Cas really needed to start acting more selfish, because every time the guy does what he thinks is 'the right thing,' the world gets turned on it's ass-end and one or more Winchesters end up dead. And fuck stupid younger brothers making ridiculous faces every time he lays his eyes on Castiel. How the fuck did this happen? Dean pouting like a PMSing teenager, Cas walking around violating all forms of personal space, Sam giggling like a twelve-year-old anytime they occupied the same room together. 

Thankfully, the trap on Miranda's closet door helped to snap him out of his mental 'woe is me' speech. He snatched his hand back when the handle lit up like a Christmas tree, but not fast enough to avoid some wicked burns on his hand. It wasn't until Sam and Castiel arrived that he realized he'd screamed.

***

A tinge of burnt flesh filled the room as Sam and Castiel entered. Dean sucked on his injured fingertips like a petulant child, motioning to the closet with his head. 

“Bobie trabed,” he muttered around his digits. Cas rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh. 

“So heal your fingers,” she said (with as much dignity as one could muster with sauce on their face). A brief examination of the symbols painted on the inside of the closet confirmed her suspicion. 

“Yes Cas. thank you. I never would have tried that had you not been here to supply me with such intricate strategic plans and save the day.” 

“You healed me,” she replied, attention unwavering from the left door handle. “Same concept.” 

“Different execution. How do we get past that?” he motioned towards the door once more, only to wince when his hand moved. Castiel whipped around, grabbed both of his wrists, and pressed a thumb into each palm. Once his hands were freed, Dean wiped the sauce from her cheek. Adorable bastard. 

“It's a lock, of sorts.” 

“And the key is...?” Sam spoke up, reminding the pair that he did, in fact, exist, and therefore all bedroom eyes needed to stop now. 

“Angel feather,” Castiel replied, unable to hide her disappointment. 

“Easy,” Sam replied, pushed off the door frame, “we have some in the trunk.” 

“Had,” Dean corrected, staring at the closet as though it had personally insulted him. “Garth needed them, remember?” 

“We already have what we need,” Cas murmured, walking behind Dean. He barely noticed her movements until her hands were on his back, pressing into the area between his shoulder blades. 

“Cas, what the fuck?” he asked, trying to twist around to her; she responded by slipping one hand under his shirt and flush against his spine, small tingles of an odd sensation forcing him to pause. Before he could demand anything of her, a jolt of painful pleasure shot through him, as though Cas had just worked out a knot from a muscle he never knew existed ; he bit his lip to keep from moaning like a porn star, his legs turned to jello from the shock of it. Castiel kicked out the back of his knee, forcing them to collapse and forcing Dean to take on a prayer stance. He wanted to complain, but opening his mouth only resulted in a small groan, so yeah, lips stay closed now. He had no idea what was happening, but it needed to stop almost as much as it needed to continue. 

“You have wings, Dean,” Castiel explained, and from the ripples flowing to him from somewhere over his shoulders, he could only assume that Cas was running her fingers through them. Awesome. Smiting, teleporting, and now wings, easily the most badass par-

His brain stopped working as Cas stroked down the feathers, re-aligning some that had apparently bent out of place; her touch felt the way static smells, sharp and clean and new, which made both zero and perfect sense to his brain right now. He swallowed harshly, realizing this was _doing_ things to him, through and through, and despite the number of awkward boners he's had in front of Sam, he had no intention of adding another to that list. 

“Hurry up,” he managed to hiss, biting his lip after to keep himself from outright whimpering. 

“I need to find on that's about to molt,” she explained, pressing harder into the underbits of his left wing, “one that's down.” He bit harder and started a mental mantra of BobbysingernakedBobbysingernakedBobbysingernaked until it all stopped. 

“Done,” she stated, pinching the feather between her fingers. Dean stood up, finding himself under Sam's questioning gaze. Seeing as he had no way to explain what just happened, he went for bragging instead, thumbing towards his own back and mouthing the word “wings” with a huge smile on his face. 

“Here,” Castiel warned, shoving a journal at Dean. “According to this, she went to some place called 'The Temple.' “


	9. Sex, Drugs, and Rock'n'Roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of two. Second half of this chapter to be posted by midnight November 1st.

The Temple, as they called it, stood in the heart of downtown Chicago, looming over the sears tower to offer a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. When asked what it was a temple of, any citygoer answered the same: debauchery. Three basement levels of strip clubs, four floors for a Casino, stories of hotel rooms, exclusive penthouse suites at the top, a cigar bar, an international wine bar, and a showroom with nightly entertainment that rivaled all of Vegas. The surprising part about the Temple was the array of people it boasted, attracting those from every walk in life; it offered everything, from penny slots to high stakes poker, karaoke stripper night to thousand dollar private dancers. Talk to the right people and you could buy a hooker. Talk to the concierge and you could have a high end escort sent to your room. From dollar domestic drafts to bathtubs full of Dom Perignon, the Temple offered you a place to worship whatever sin you so chose. 

Dean wondered how the hell he’d never visited sooner. 

The decent in to the basement didn’t have the traditional haze of sex and shame that filled the air at every other strip club Dean had visited – and he had visited a lot. As the trio picked their way through the packed tables, Dean realized there was no center stage at this place; instead of everyone facing in one direction, sets of tables surrounded smaller stages dispersed around the club, allowing for more intimate interactions with the dancers. 

Whoever owned this place was a genius. 

Dean took note of the second unique feature of the club – being packed rather densely for a Tuesday night --which made him ill-at-ease. He held up the group, surveying the scene to form an attack plan for how to find Miranda. He turned back to check his six, catching a glimpse of Cas, causing him to do a double take before staring openly. The angel was completely mesmerized by the nearest stage, where a blonde and a brunette performed a double act. Each wore next to nothing, their routine nearly over, a scant mix of black and white lace keeping things just barely legal. One mouthed up the other from legs to hips to lips, tongue flickering out now and then to taste just a bit, causing the girl to write against her partner and the pole; when she reached the top, the brunette was rewarded for her teasing with a pair of hands that ran the length of her. 

Expression blank, Cas stood enrapt by their motions, bodies slick with glitter and sweat as they slotted against one another for a breathy, open mouthed kiss. He saw Cas raise her hand, reaching for the girls, and shit no, they did not need to get thrown out here already. He shouted instinctively, to no avail, as the music could drown out a wailing banshee. Before he knew it, his hands were on her wrists pushing down the offending arm and pulling her along, away from the girls. He gave her hand a tight squeeze before releasing her, both as an apology and a warning.

Sam tugged on his arm, leaning in to his ear to tell him something, but no matter how close they got, Dean still couldn’t hear. They pulled out their phones simultaneously, and Dean stared at his screen, waiting for Sam to finish typing. 

‘The strippers here are way too hot for a Tuesday afternoon’ 

Dean vaguely nodded an affirmative; it wasn’t exactly a red, flashing sign of supernatural activity, but it did lend to the feeling in his gut that this place seemed… off, somehow. They needed to get to the owner, and ask after Miranda. He turned to pull Castiel along only to find her presence absent from his elbow. A quick scan found her right back where she was before, in front of French maids with ridiculously trim waists, when one of the dancers bent over, reached out, and grabbed that damned blue tie, pulling her in for (surprisingly) a soft, almost chaste kiss. 

At that moment, Dean stopping thinking with his upstairs brain. 

Even more surprising was Cas, who reached a hand behind the dancer’s head, pulling the girl in to part her lips and lick into her mouth. The unexpected pressure was too much for the girl’s heels to handle, and she tumbled face first off the stage, landing in Cas’s lap, who then collapsed backwards. 

For some reason neither found this a good enough reason to stop, Cas rearing on her elbows to plunge back in, fingers gripping tightly at the base of those long luxurious locks. 

Sam got there first; Dean was too busy trying to pick his jaw off the floor, mind stuck half way between what the hell and oh jesus. Sam had to hoist Cas up and pry her away off the girl – not that the dancer minded, by any stretch of the imagination. 

Dean swallowed harshly; he took a moment to reconsider his current belief in god, because no other force in the universe could have successfully prevented him from killing that stripper.

A small crowd gathered to see the spectacle, booing and hissing as the girls came apart. Security, naturally responds to all disturbances in the club, and Dean moved to intercept them. Flashing a badge and demanding to talk to the owner would be a great way to get some answers. Sam picked up on his intentions and reached for his own badge, but Cas stepped in front of them both, speaking for the group.

“We’ve come to pay homage to the god of this temple,” she declared, as if she didn’t just spend the last ten minutes sucking face with a stripper. Dean tried to play it off as some drunk prank, but apparently the guy was smoking the same crap as Cas, because he immediately answered,

“Whoso asks for an audience?” 

“Two of his disciples,” she answered, vaguely gesturing towards the Winchesters. “And a wiling sacrifice.” 

He nodded curtly and motioned for them to follow, taking off towards the back of the club. Dean scrambled to catch up with the smoothly gliding Castiel.

Dean’s mind ran at a mile-a-minute as he silently followed security into what could be a trap for all they knew. What the hell was Cas thinking? Clearly she seemed to have some plan in mind, but it would have been really nice of her to clue the rest of them in on what’s in store. You don’t formulate a battle plan that consists of announcing yourself to the enemy without at least consulting with your teammates first. Especially if they’re the ones wielding the big guns. Now the three of them were walking into the back of the strip club – where all the best and worst things happen – who the hell knew what lay in wait back there. By the way Cas spoke, it sounded like at least some kind of god, if not something worse. He wanted to ask Sammy what kind of god would consider a strip club a kind of temple, but communication was impossible and he was certain he wouldn’t like the answer. 

Even worse, why would Sam and Dean be a disciple of this god and not Cas? Was it because she was an angel? Well, more like an ex-angel. Angel on hold? Angel, interrupted? But then why did Dean qualify? Cas was an actual angel pretending to be a human, and Dean was an actual human pretending to be an angel. It seemed like if one of those counted, it would exclude or include them both. 

Gods, goddesses, supernaturally strong creatures from their legends, all filed under ‘bad news’ in Dean’s book. None of them ever helped out without demanding something in return. Usually virgins. Dean’s eyes flicked to Cas. Sacrifice. She said he and Sam were disciples, but she was a sacrifice. Goddammit. He felt a stab in his chest that blossomed outward until it weighted down his stomach and choked at his throat. No way. He was not letting her do that again. There would be no killing of any virgins, not on his watch. 

Then again, with that kiss… was she even a virgin anymore? With the exception of Meg and that porno, he didn’t think Cas even knew what went on between the sheets. The thought of her kissing that stripper hit something in his gut low and harsh. He immediately counter-acted it by ignoring who she was kissing and instead focus on how she was kissing. Because damn. It was easy to see that she still carried herself as an all-powerful angel of the lord, and fuck all if she wasn’t gonna put as much energy into that as she did a fight. For someone who claimed to have no experience, Cas seemed like the type who’d be rather commanding once you got her going. That thought had him reaching down to adjust himself. Focus Winchester. There are things trying to kill you here. 

He barely registered the elevator, nor the long hallway leading to the VIP room. He did take note of the sweet setup in the VIP room – more like a VIP suit. Private bar, single stage with a pole, and an upper balcony with a set of doors Dean could only imagine led to a bed. The security guard gestured to the couch in front of the stage as he climbed the few steps to the balcony. The trio took a seat, and once the guard was out of earshot, Dean leaned over to Cas and hissed, ‘What the fucking is going on?” 

The angel replied with a glare he hadn’t seen since high school when the nerdy kids would try to shut him up in math class. He opened his mouth to ask again when noise from the balcony diverted his attention. 

The guard knocked on the door, cracking it a bit to say something to whomever was inside. After a moment the door opened fully, and the owner stepped through. At first glance, Dean thought she could be a model -- one of those French models with no chest and a face that looked like they were sucking a sour lemon. Tall, lithe, with blonde hair rippling down her back, looking as soft as the silk robe she wore; she probably just finished up in one of the private room. When she turned to face him, though, he took back every thought he'd ever had about her and came up a list of dirty ones instead; full red lips and high angled cheekbones -- okay she wasn't exactly rocking a set of double D's, but she had a firmness to her body that said she didn't get that waist just by eating twigs and berries. Swedish. She had to be Swedish, between the platinum blonde hair and icy blue eyes, and holy crap is she tall. The two murmured something to one another, and suddenly her eyes locked on Dean. A huge grin broke across her face. 

“Winchesters!” she greeted happily, stepping forward to the railing separating the balcony from the living area. She rubbed her hands together excitedly before interlacing her fingers. 

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”


	10. Showtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean spared a quick glance to Cas, who licked her lips and raised her chin in a small swallow, which sent bells and whistled off in Dean’s head. That pair of acts, in that order, were Cas’s ‘I’m stoically hiding that I’m really fucking nervous right now’ sign. Great. Exactly what did she sign them all up for?

“No, no, don’t answer that,” she cut in immediately, waving a hand in their general direction while rounding the balcony to reach the stairs. “If you know the answer, you’re just going to lie to me,” she reasoned, sauntering down each step slowly, giving her time to size them up as they did the same to her; when she reached the bottom step, she leaned against the railing as she leered at the trio. Dean sized her up in return, and damn if she wasn’t impressive. Even without heels on, she must have stood at an equal height to Dean (a difficult task for a girl), but it was hard to tell with her languidly lounging on the staircase. 

Dean spared a quick glance to Cas, who licked her lips and raised her chin in a small swallow, which sent bells and whistled off in Dean’s head. That pair of acts, in that order, were Cas’s ‘I’m stoically hiding that I’m really fucking nervous right now’ sign. Great. Exactly what did she sign them all up for? 

Dionysus continued to stare at them, chin resting on her palm, fingers drumming her lip softly. “If you didn’t know the answer, you’d still lie to me.”

A concurrent thought of ‘Yeah, that’s probably true,’ ran across both Winchesters' minds. 

She popped up suddenly, clapping her hands together in a loud crack. “Lucky for me, you’re not alone!” she said, rubbing her hands together in as she approached. The genuine glee in her eye caused Dean to tense. Hot babe or not, she was still an ancient Greek deity. Ancient deities tended to demand sacrifices in the form of virgins, and a card-carrying member of that club stood to his right. Cas might be on board with this, but Dean sure as hell was not. The god managed about one step off from her position on the stairs before everything went to hell. 

It could have been his jaw that tipped security off; he had a tendency to clench and shift it in preparation for a fight, lips parted to suck a deep breath in before attacking or to blow a half breath out to seem like he was too relaxed to attack. Or it could have been his right hand, instinctively creeping towards his gun. Or his left arm, flexing to react to any onslaught forthcoming. No matter what triggered them, the outcome was the same: the lights flickered violently, some of the bulbs above bursting, and suddenly every guard has a gun out, cocked and locked on Dean, each of them waiting for an order before firing. Dean looked around, uncertain of how the atmosphere managed to change so rapidly. He counted the guards while marking their positions; he could take them all down without too much issue, but couldn’t protect Sam and Cas at the same time. Dionysus stared at him, eyes fixed in a semi-unfocused glaze at the area somewhere above his shoulders. 

“No fucking way,” she breathed in a low husky tone, tentatively taking another step forward. Her hand outstretched, then recoiled suddenly, as if she changed her mind half way through reaching. Red lips parted in a sly smile, a devious eye scanning over the angel and his ward. Cas flicked a glance towards Dean, letting loose a sharp tsk. 

“Dean!” she hissed in a harsh stage whisper, “your wings!” 

He immediately looked over his should and, naturally, saw nothing. 

“What about them?” he half-growled, annoyed that Cas gave a way that important bit of information. “They’re out!” she reprimanded, a slight blush showing the emotion her stone face wouldn't. “Put them away!” 

Control muscles that you can neither see nor feel to hide wings that you’re only sure exist because someone else told you so. Yes. Great plan, Cas. 

“I’m trying!” 

“This is,” Dionysus said slowly, garnering all attention back in her direction, “one of the better nights I’ve had in a while.” She climbed back up the stairs slowly, as if committing the scene to memory. “Stay here, I’m going to change into something less,” she glanced down at her outfit, grimacing in displeasure, “I don’t know, something less this. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Ah, you,” she said to one of the guards, pointing at him only to discover his weapon still targeted at Dean. “For fucks sakes, put it away, they’re Winchesters. Get them some bourbon. Good Bourbon, not the shit I serve to you people. You, set up for an offering. Find out what she wants to drink. Then leave, all of you.” 

Orders given, she disappeared back behind the doors she came from, leaving a whirlwind of activity behind. Dean didn’t miss how Castiel’s shoulders dropped a bit, the deity exiting the room obviously releasing some tension. Fucking hell, this is going to be a _blast._ They were ushered to seats with drinks in hand, everyone disappearing as quickly as they came. 

Dean begrudgingly sipped his drink, trying his best to hide how very, very smooth it tasted. Like holy hell this shit had to be expensive. It went down like silk. He would not look surprised. He would not look impressed, dammit. 

Dionysus popped her head around the corner of the door to shoot him one last disapproving glare. 

“Really, Dean, I know you like it. You've been a disciple of mine for years now, I can read it on your face. No need to deny yourself the little pleasures in life.” 

He answered with a scowl, which she countered by retreating back behind the door. Stupid gods. His eyes ventured over to seek Sam's opinion; he politely sniffed the alcohol, knowing better than to drink anything offered to him by a deity. Dean at least had Cas's angel mojo protecting him. He was about to offer Cas the advice of not drinking anything, but before he could open his mouth, she cupped the glass and gulped the cocktail in one go, putting it back on the tray it was offered from. She noticed Sam toeing his alcohol and scowled. 

“Drink,” she commanded, pushing the tumbler closer. “You are in the house of a god of alcohol and festivities. Dionysus won't harm a disciple, but to be a disciple you must drink,” she reiterated, pointing (once again, for good measure) at the glass in front of him. Sam side glanced at her and took a small sip, hunters' instincts unable to be suppressed. His eyebrows went up in surprise at the quality; Dean gave him a mental “ _I know, right?_ as he swirled the glass. 

Cas swallowed visibly the moment Dionysus re-entered the room. For some reason, “more comfortable” meant a well-fitted suit with half the buttons undone and goddamn lion pelt slung over her shoulders. She flopped down on the chair in front of the trio, left leg tossed over the arm, reclining back to peer at them over the rim of her glass.

Cliche does not even begin to cover this god. 

This plan was quickly becoming a shittier and shittier idea. He hadn't seen Cas this visibly worked up since he tried to feed him to that hooker a number of years ago. Heh. But damn, after her earlier performance, maybe she'd be just fine this time and no brain, let's not think of now-Cas with then-Chasity – 

Dean cleared his throat, noise far too loud from the silent room, eliciting a knowing smirk from Dionysus. Dean chose to focus his thoughts on his bourbon instead. Like damn. That shit tasted like how a blowjob from a nymph would feel. 

“Don't talk, Dean,” Dionysus interrupted as soon as his lips parted. “I don’t' like being lied to. Drink your bourbon. And no, sacrifice doesn’t mean anyone is dying today,” she said, snapping her eyes up from her cocktail. 

He blinked twice and stared at Sam. Dionysus rolled her eyes. 

“No, you're not that obvious. I,” she cocked her head for good measure, “am simply that good. Stop admiring your brother and just relax.” 

His eyes trailed back to the goddess, along with the most deadpan scowl he could manage. 

“Oh stop. You've been my disciple for years. Strayed for a bit, sure, but who hasn't.” 

“I have never once prayed to --”

“I never said _prayed,_ I said _disciple_ ,” she retorted, enunciating her words slowly and clearly. She relaxed into a disappointed frown. “Really, Dean. Just what do you think I'm the god _of_?” 

“Poor decision making?” he quipped, sipping his drink. His shoulders jumped when Cas's foot made contact with his shin. 

Dionysus outright laughed at that one. “Close!” she admitted, tipping her drink to him in a salute. “I'll give you a hint. If you were a catholic you'd think I'm the god of sin. But in truth, it's more accurate to say I'm the deity of indulgence. “

“I thought you were the god of wine and theater?” Sam interjected, reminding Dionysus that a second Winchester was here. 

“The Romans had me pegged for that, sure. I can't deny that some of my favorite things in life are a good vintage and a good show. Speaking of which,” she said, a sly smile spreading across her face as her eyes slid to Castiel (who, having downed 2 more cocktails, now sat staring blankly at the stage to their left, as if a moose was gonna pop out and eat everyone). Dionysus caught Castiel's attention and rose her eyebrows suggestively, causing Cas to flush bright red and hesitate. 

Sam cleared his throat, trying to bring them back on task. “We came here because –“ 

“Oh stop, I know why you're here,” she interrupted with a wave of her hand. “You want to know about Miranda. Well, specifically, you want to know why your little canary here was evicted from her last cage. And I'll tell you, free of charge. As loyal followers of mine, I will gladly help you out,” she said, flashing a wide white smile. “But, Cas, on the other hand – I'm gonna need some form of payment.” 

Castiel reached for a glass of water this time, loosening the tie around her neck. 

“No?” Dionysus asked, a tight-lipped grin on her face. “More foreplay first? Fine by me.” She stood up, reaching out to push an errant piece of hair behind Castiel's ear. The angel tensed when Dionysus first breached her personal space, but as the seconds rolled on her shoulders loosened more and more. The goddess continued the light touches, through her hair, down her shoulders – never venturing into lewd territory, never pushing further than Cas seemed comfortable with. “Take your time, love. The anticipation is thrilling,” she spoke softly, eyes locked on Cas, letting her hand cup the angel's face. Castiel leaned into the goddess's touch. “We won't go any faster than you can handle.” Her thumb stroked Cas's cheek gently, almost reverently. 

Sam coughed loudly, an obvious attempt to break up the tension. Or maybe he noticed how Dean white-knuckled his glass. Either way, it deviated the deity's attention. 

“Jealous, Sam?” Dionysus questioned, breaking away from Cas to duplicate the maneuver on the younger Winchester; only this time, she leaned in and slotted against his body. A look from Cas was the only thing stopping Dean from ripping the chick off his brother. By the time he turned back to the pair, Dionysus was kissing Sam, slowly and deliberately. 

This was bad news. Dean severely hoped this goddess deserved the amount of trust Cas placed in her. He sat idly by as his brother sucked face with an immortal being. Again. This plan was turning out to be just friggen awesome. 

After a moment she broke away, flicking her eyes up to Sam with a small pout. 

“Aw, what's the matter, Sam?” she ran a hand through his ridiculously long hair. “I happen to have it on good authority that I am an excellent kisser.” 

He responded with an apologetic shrug. “Guys just don't really do it for me.” 

“That's too bad,” Dionysus replied, reaching for Sam's drink. The room managed to stay silent for another full minute as Dionysus waited for the penny to drop. 

“Wait, you – you're a dude?” Dean asked, his brain finally putting two and two together. The rest of them answered at the same time; Sam with such a sassy “Yeah,” that he could feel the 'Dean, you're an idiot,' undertones. Cas flatly replied “No,” and Dionysus shrugged while casually offering a “sort of.” Now he was really confused. 

“I am what I want to be,” she (he? Dammit Dean hates gods) explained, extricating herself from Sam's lap. 

“I'm ready,” Cas stated gravely, looking to the god, who scoffed. 

“No need to be so excited about it,” she replied, taking another sip and setting the glass in Sam's hand. 

“Well I'm not ready. What the hell is going on here?” Dean demanded, ass firmly planted in his seat, fully prepared to start smiting people if they didn't cooperate. 

“Relax, Dean,” Dionysus ordered, taking a moment to stretch her shoulders. “God of wine and performance, remember? Cassie here is just going to give a little show, is all.” 

A pause. Then, 

“What.... kind of a show, exactly?” Sam ventured tentatively. A dangerous grin quickly unraveled across her face. She didn't reply, just thumbed behind her in the direction of the pole. 

….oh. 

Of the million-odd thoughts flying around in Dean's head, not one liked this plan. At all. But none could come up with a proper reason as to why it shouldn't happen, either. 

“And no,” Dionysus answered before either of them could ask, walking towards the seats in front of the stage, “Neither of you are allowed to take her place. She's the one who has to pay.”

In clambering onto the stage, Dean realized Cas still wore those ridiculous black heels she'd fallen in earlier. Oh god, this was not gonna be good. Dionysus sat front and center, drink in hand and expectations high. Sam and Dean sat a row or two back – he was NOT leaving Cas alone in the same room as this creep, but he also didn't wanna leer at her either. Dionysus yelled at someone turn down the lights and get the music going. Cas stood stiffly by the pole, thumb rubbing the metal in a worrying manner. She flicked a quick glance around the room, then immediately became rather interested in her own toes; the music blared on abruptly, causing her to jump before awkwardly shifting in time with the obnoxious club-styled beat. 

To say the whole debacle was a disaster would be an extreme understatement. 

Overall, her technique actually wasn't that bad. She could pull off some of the more difficult tricks without batting an eye. But she lacked some element of desire, because the whole performance was just painful to watch. Like a car accident occurring in excruciatingly slow motion. Never before in his life had Dean been so turned off by a pole dance. There was only one moment – just one – where everything seemed to click: when Cas had swung around, and her eyes wandered from Dionysus to himself – she licked her lips, and Dean unconsciously followed suit. Then she tripped on her own high heels and lost any semblance of sexiness. 

When the song ended and the torture finally over (was is possible to die from second-hand embarrassment?), Dionysus motioned for Cas to come over to him. The girl still had all her clothes on – trench coat included. She bent down for the god to whisper something in her ear; Dean couldn't hear the conversation, but Cas must not've liked it – her eyes went wide and she shot upright, shaking her head fiercely. Dean didn't fail to notice the flush of red in her cheeks, either; damn pervert was gonna get his ass kicked, dude or not. 

Dionysus re-motioned her down, resuming whatever dirty talk he started. After a moment Cas straightened, flicked her eyes to the Winchesters, then looked back to Dionysus. The music changed, and Dean immediately recognized the opening line of Zeppelin's “I can't quit you babe.” Cas kicked off her heels, bare feet smoothly navigating the stage in a seductive saunter. She tuned around and in one fluid motion divested herself of the tan trench coat, material rippling off her back and fluttering to the floor. The suit coat must have gone with it – she was down to the white shirt, tie and pants. Her hips rolled in time with the drum, leg wrapping around the pole to spin once before leaning against it and dropping down, eyes closed as she let out a soft moan. 

Suddenly the room felt much, much warmer. 

On the way back up, the button on her pants came apart, black material slowly slinking to the floor. Kicking them out of her way sent them flying into Dionysus's face. She pulled at her tie to loosen it, and Dean found himself duplicating the maneuver. By the time the guitar solo hit, enough buttons were undone on her shirt that Dean knew wasn't wearing a bra; he swallowed thickly as she gyrated with the slow beat, hands roaming from the pole to her breasts to her thighs, lifting the bottom of her shirt until Dean could see she had those same black panties from when he kissed her, lips parting as they relived that memory. 

The music faded off, and Cas finished with a flourish, Dean's intense concentration finally broken by Dionysus's loud cheering. Dean shifted in his seat, side-eyeing Sam to see if he noticed how far forward Dean was leaning, or the angle he was now sitting at. 

Fuck. 

“Bravo my dear!” Dionysus congratulated her and dammit all if Dean didn't just hate the small smile she gave him back. The god swiped her coat from the floor and draped it around her shoulders. 

“Come, dress, I'll tell you what you want to know,” she said, motioning for the Winchesters to join her. 

Dean took his time standing up. 

“Miranda came by asking for information about what around here had the ability to rip apart an angel like that,” she explained, offering Cas a steadying hand ash she slid her pants back on. 

Dean did not stare at the way her ass jiggled when she did the 'jeans-on' jump. He did not. He may have glanced in that direction while it occurred and then made longer-than-socially acceptable eye contact with her perky cheeks, but he did not stare. 

“Pervert,” Sam mumbled playfully behind his bourbon. Dean stomped on his toes and Sam nearly spat out his drink. Cas and Dionysus looked in time to catch Dean making his victory face. Cas rolled her eyes – Dionysus actually seemed amused. 

“Please continue,” Cas said, bending over to pick up her suit coat and shit Dean could see straight down the front of her shirt. He busied himself with his bourbon and Dionysus's information. 

“There aren't many who can mange that spell without it backfiring somehow. It seems to impart a measure of bad karma on the caster. No, not like the rabbit's paw. Don't interrupt. The thing that makes it really easy to narrow down on a suspect is exactly how shittily they performed it. Twice. A demon would never do such shoddy work, and a witch would kill you for even suggesting she did something this horrendous. We're dealing with a human – one that has little experience in spellcasting.” 

“But when we investigated the site where the ritual was performed, we were attacked by demons,” Cas pointed out. Dionysus shook her head gently. 

“I think they were trying to figure out what was going on as much as you and I,” She pulled a pen and paper out of her jacket and started writing. “Luckily for us, the ingredients are for this are fairly uncommon, so I came up with a list of likely suspects who have procured such items recently.” She recapped the pen and handed the list to Sam. “Unfortunately, the list is still rather long. Miranda came to me weeks ago for this information,” her lips curled in a smile. “Bought me with wine. Smart girl. If you can get her to cooperate at all, do it. She's likely got this list whittled down to a few names by now.” 

“She doesn't want to help,” Cas stated, throwing the ends of her tie around in a failed attempt to knot it. Dionysus leaned over and tied the blue strip, fixing her collar and securing it tightly at the base. 

“She wants revenge,” Sam supplied, eyes glued to the list. “So would we.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't die. Whoot.


End file.
